We Have Just Lost Cabin Pressure
by Lint
Summary: Xander Harris meets Tyler Durden.
1. Prologue

Title: We Have Just Lost Cabin Pressure   
Author: Lint   
Email: CrashDarby@aol.com   
Pairing: Wait and See   
Disclaimer: All Buffy folk belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy, and The WB. Tyler Durden and all Fight Club references belong to 20th Century Fox and Chuck Palahniuk.   
Rating: R  
Summary: Xander gets a Tyler Durden of his very own. Crossover with Fight Club.   
Author's Notes: For Bree and Donna, for getting me hooked on the movie (the book was all me), and your constant support.   
  
***  
  
It's funny how different the world seems from five stories up with a gun pressed into the back of your head and a knife to your throat. When you're in a position like this, the smallest little details of your day suddenly become arbitrary. Remembering if you put on clean socks, if you applied deodorant, if you shaved. Little questions you ask yourself in the morning. You couldn't possibly leave the house if any one of them came up negative.   
  
Do I have a zit? Are my shoes tied? Does my hair look okay? Do I have morning breath? Where are my keys? Am I wearing underwear?   
  
When the sidewalk spins below you like it's doing for me, when you have cold steel kissing your skull, and even more steel tickling your throat. The little things aren't even in the picture. Right now I'm not thinking if I smell funny. I'm not thinking of what I could have said to that guy that cut me off earlier.   
  
Right now I'm thinking that the knife threatening the integrity of my jugular is a little excessive. There isn't any real use for it. Throwing me off the side of the building, or pulling the trigger would kill me just the same. I would tell him this, but I have to be careful not to move my neck muscles. Even swallowing would cut me. My Adam's apple is tickled by the sharp edge, bobbing carefully below as my breath goes in and out in sharp quick intakes. My teeth are gritted together, and I'm not too eager to laugh from the tickle.   
  
I feel the warm trickle of my own blood dripping down my neck and I know that I'm losing the fight with Mr. Knife. A low gargling growl escapes my throat, and I hear him chuckling behind me. He leans closer to my ear and mumbles something about how we're not all-beautiful unique flowers. That we are shit. The same bit of apple core and lettuce leaf in the compost pile of the world. He was always saying things like that. At first I thought he had some self-esteem issues. Or that he had a traumatic childhood.   
  
In time I learned he was serious about it. He believed in the things he said. He wanted me to believe it too. He wanted the world to believe it too.   
  
So here we are.   
  
On the roof of parking garage, a plunge, a bullet, and an edge all waiting to take my life.   
  
"You have to understand man," he says letting up on the knife a little. "You have to let go if you want to change the world. You can't alter anything you keep your hands tied down too. You aren't your job. You aren't your car. You aren't your fucking work boots. You aren't that goddamn jackhammer you pound all day."  
  
I gag out a response of agreement. I just want him to put the knife down so I can breathe.   
  
"You know I'm right Xander," he says. "You know I'm right."   
  
He puts the knife down and I gasp and take in a few big gulps of air. The gun is still pointed at my head, and the sidewalk still looms below, but at least I can breathe. He turns me around so that my lower back is now teetering along the edge, and I see that crazy grin he always has. He puts the gun under my chin.   
  
I don't ask him why he wants to kill me. But he knows that's what I'm thinking.   
  
"I don't want to kill you man," he says moving the gun away. "I want to set you free."  
  
I tell him he has a funny idea of freedom.   
  
He just laughs and itches his forehead with the barrel of the gun.   
  
"Still holding on," he says. "Can't let go if you're chained down."  
  
I tell him I'm not chained to anything.   
  
He laughs again and waves the gun around like a laser pointer.   
  
He points north.   
  
"Your job."  
  
He points south.  
  
"Your car."  
  
He points east.  
  
"Your apartment is taken care of."  
  
He points west.  
  
"Your life."  
  
I ask him what that has to do with anything. He growls in frustration, shoving the gun back under my chin.   
  
"Have you been listening at all?"  
  
I close my eyes and think about the last few months of my life. I think about how a hitchhiker single handedly flipped my world upside down. I think about the gun under my jaw. I think about the sweat beading down my forehead. I think about my new best friend and his finger on the trigger.  
  
I think about how I got into this position.   
  
Let me tell you how I met Tyler Durden. 


	2. Road Trip

  
The highway was spilling out before me like a million miles of concrete intestine. My car traveling through the tract of the west, passing the bowels of the Rocky Mountains and onto my toilet destination of Kansas City. I had to fetch some papers and some money. My boss was too cheap to spring for a plane ticket. He gave me his car, a hundred bucks for gas, and told me to be back in ten to twelve days.   
  
I wanted to tell him I was a construction worker, not the mailman. Instead I told him sure. I was supposed to have done this a few years ago. Road trip across America, see the sites, have a good time. It was supposed to be fun.   
  
This trip wasn't all that fun. It was only proving that my boss either A) only trusted me out of all the guys on crew to do this little task for him. Or B) Proving that he was too damn lazy to drive all this way on his own and figured he'd get one of his lackeys to do it for him. My money was on B, but you never know just what someone thinks of you until they tell you. Or unless you ask.   
  
The radio broke a mere four hours into the drive. He once sat around at lunchtime bragging about his killer system and even bumped his speakers for everyone. The guys that were into that kind of thing sat around over his setup. I ate my sandwich and pretended to care. All that money and it magically stops working when I wasn't even blasting the volume.   
  
Snap. Crackle. Pop.   
  
Silence.   
  
For two days the only thing I had to keep me company was the sound of the engine humming its fine quality American made tune.   
  
Your mind does a lot of things to keep itself occupied in such a sound depravated environment. Your other senses have their own little tasks to accomplish. The sunlight occupies your eyes. The odors outside occupy your nose. The steering wheel under your hands, and the car seat hugging your ass occupies touch. Your ears have nothing to play with.   
  
You make clicking noises with your tongue. Gargling sounds in the back of your throat. Sound effects and re-enactments of movies or TV shows. I'd make up songs, or have full-fledged conversations with no one there. Your mind does anything to keep itself occupied. When I stopped at a motel in Utah I think I was still talking to myself because the manager of the motel asked me if I was an escaped mental patient. I told him no, and he still warned me not to hang myself in the bathroom with the bed sheet. I asked if that had happened before.   
  
"Once or twice," he said.   
  
When I entered the room, the air was stale and smelled of Lysol. The carpeting was plush, and the walls were covered in cheap paintings of flowers and happy looking birds. An old air-conditioning unit rattled away on the windowsill, reminding me of the engine hum. I turned on the TV and was thankful for sounds that weren't generated by the car or me.   
  
I watched infomercials and ate noodles in a cup until I was tired. The sheets were stiff but after getting my legs cramped from sleeping in the car last night I was glad I had a bed to sleep in. I closed my eyes, listening to the rattle of the air-conditioner and the clicking of my tongue.   
  
The humming and singing got worse as I drove on, but it was better than having to sit there listening to nothing, watching the kaleidoscope of the world spin by from my driver side window.  
  
I was a construction worker not a mailman.   
  
I entered Kansas City another day after stopping in Utah. I had a hell of a time finding out where my boss's brother lived. The directions I was given were to his old house. My boss didn't tell me he moved. I had to track him down through his company. It ate up an entire day of my ten to twelve day schedule.   
  
I got the papers and the money. I drove all this way and the guy basically threw them out of his door and told me to tell his brother he said hello. That night I stayed in a not so stiff-sheet motel, ate more noodles and watched more infomercials. My eyes were still locked in tunnel vision from the road. I kept bumping into the beds and dresser. I closed them for awhile to try and shake it off, but it didn't work. I took a shower with my little bottles of shampoo, brushed my teeth with my travel-sized toothbrush and mouthwash.   
  
Tiny versions of life-size products.   
  
Tiny like my life was becoming.   
  
The drive back was tedious. My tongue was sore from the constant clicking, and my throat was rough from the gargling. My eyes grew as dull as the pale yellow strips on the road. My ass was sore and my hands were chaffed. I started to hate the road.   
  
I considered jerking the wheel and plowing my boss's Lincoln town car into the side of a barn or a mountain. Driving off a bridge and becoming plankton for the little fishes to eat. I wanted to be decomposed organic matter rotting at the bottom of a lake. I wanted to be a scrape off the asphalt, a bag and tag procedure for the highway patrol. I wanted to be impaled with the heart of America's hard working farm family's barn. I wanted the loneliness to end.   
  
Another day, another chorus of random thoughts and clicking sounds. Highway lanes blurred together like peanut butter and jelly. Got milk?  
  
Billboards pass like flashcards for capitalists.   
  
I saw a guy with his thumb out standing underneath a billboard telling me that Cathy's Cafe has the best pie in the west. I pull over. I ask where he's headed.   
  
"California," he says.   
  
Same here, I tell him. Hop in.   
  
He throws his briefcase into the backseat. I notice he's wearing these spit-shined loafers, a Hawaiian shirt, brown leather jacket, and these huge Elvis glasses. I don't comment. I've worn worse. I ask him his name and he hands me a card.   
  
It says "Paper Street Soap Company." His name it says, is Tyler Durden.   
  
He makes soap for a living. I tell him that I've never met anyone that knows how to make soap.   
  
Tyler laughs and says that with enough soap you could blow up the world.  
  
I ask him if he really wants to blow up the world.   
  
He says, "Not today."   
  
He doesn't ask why the radio doesn't work. He just stares out the window and taps on his legs. I stare straight ahead, every once in awhile looking at him out of the corner of my eye. I want to start up a conversation, but I don't know what about. Talking about the weather would be lame. I don't think talking about soap some more would be too interesting. Instead I ask where in California he's heading.   
  
"Some little shit town I can't remember the name of," he says. "Sunnyhell or something."  
  
I ask if he means Sunnydale.   
  
He says, "Yeah, Yeah I think that's it."  
  
I tell him that's where I'm going. What a coincidence.  
  
Tyler says, "Life is full of coincidences."   
  
I don't ask Tyler why he's going to Sunnydale, though the curious little cat inside can't stop wondering why of all places in California he'd want to go there. Instead I ask him where he's coming from.   
  
"Around," he says.   
  
I nod. Most people come from around.  
  
Tyler talked about a lot of interesting things. He told me that when you make soap a layer of glycerin forms at the top of the tallow you boil in water. He says that you can add nitric acid to the glycerin and make nitroglycerin.   
  
I ask him if he's ever done that. He just smiled at me and scratched the back of his hand. I looked at the big lip-shaped scar on the back of it. I felt an eyebrow quirk but kept the cat inside.   
  
"You can mix the sodium nitrate with the nitroglycerin and add sawdust to make dynamite," Tyler says. "Or you can add more nitric acid to the nitroglycerin and add paraffin to make blasting gelatin."   
  
You can really do that? I ask.   
  
"One can make all kinds of explosives using simple household items," Tyler says.   
  
Really?  
  
"If one were so inclined."  
  
I stare back to road and Tyler goes back to looking out his window. I'm wondering if he really knows what he's talking about with all the explosive stuff. I'm wondering if I really want to know.   
  
"Nice car," Tyler says, bringing me out of my tunnel vision.   
  
I tell him it's my boss's car.   
  
He tells me that an old buddy of his used to work for a car company. He said that his buddy would go around photographing catastrophic accidents caused by simple malfunctions. He'd write up reports and determine if the accidents were severe enough to issue a recall. He tells me more than half the time no recall was issued.   
  
I asked what company his buddy worked for.   
  
Tyler said, "A big one."  
  
My chaffed hands start to tap on the steering wheel, some beat of some unknown song in my head. Tyler asks me why I do that.   
  
Do what? I ask.   
  
"Try to distract yourself when there's nothing to be distracted from," Tyler says.   
  
I tell him that sometimes I don't like the quiet.  
  
"You should appreciate it," Tyler tells me. "You know how many minutes of self-satisfying silence a person can get these days? Five or Six minutes tops," he says. "Twenty-fours hours in a day and that's all you get. You have cars, busses, and airplanes chugging out as much noise as exhaust. You've got people with their questions and demands. Complaints and statements of self-gratification. Speaking just to speak, not caring if they're heard. Noise pollution man, is worse than toxic waste and nuclear power. People want to save the environment. I say let the environment save us."   
  
I tell him that's very deep. He says he didn't catch my name, but wait. He doesn't want to know. I tell him its Xander. He shrugs. I don't think it was very important to him. He doesn't ask what I do for a living. He doesn't ask why I'm driving a luxury car dressed in a flannel shirt and beat-up blue jeans. He doesn't find it strange. He tells me there's nothing like the open road. One of the last few places we can really be free. I tell him that it started to make me feel trapped. That the road was going to swallow the car whole and spit me out somewhere like a knocked-out molar.   
  
"You are looking at it from entirely the wrong perspective," Tyler says.   
  
For another day we drove and talked about interesting things like shit jobs we didn't care about and pulling pranks. He was a waiter. I was an ice cream man. He was a movie projectionist. I was a pizza delivery guy. He tells me of his clam chowder and tomato soup escapades. I tell him of having a crush on a teacher that turned out to be a giant bug, having friends that were witches and vampires. An entire reality of devils and demons the rest of the world turns it's eyes away from.   
  
"At least you see it," Tyler says. "You could be one of the ignorant little drones passing through life without really looking at it."  
  
I tell him that sometimes I wish I were.   
  
He says, "No you don't."   
  
The Lincoln cruises through the California desert set on a cruise control of seventy miles and hour. Tyler is passed out, his head resting against the window. I take the opportunity to look closer at the scar on his right hand. It's a big pink-puffed set of lips. It looks like someone kissed him with their mouth on fire.  
  
"Chemical burn," Tyler says scaring me and sending my eyes back to the road. "Hurts worse than you've ever been burned. Worse than a hundred cigarettes."  
  
I ask him why he would want to give himself a chemical burn in the shape of lips on the back of his hand.   
  
Tyler says, "Just one of the steps to hitting bottom."  
  
We didn't talk much on the last stretch of highway before getting home. I was still weirded out by the burn and he knew it. Most of the way he just sat there smiling. When we got into Sunnydale he guided me to one of it's many luxuriously abandoned mansions. I never knew why Sunndydale had so many palaces left to rot. I never thought about it. I guess I just chalked it up to the hellmouth situation.   
  
Tyler gets out of the car and tells me thanks for the ride. I tell him he is by far the most interesting guy I have ever met. He asks for the card he gave me and scribbles a number on the back of it. He tells me to call him. We'll tear the town down.   
  
I say sure and drive off to my apartment.   
  
A blinding score of emergency lights flash before my eyes as I pull onto my street. Sirens blast from incoming fire trucks and I pull over to the side of the road. I get to see a towering inferno of orange and yellow flame erupting from the ground a few hundred feet away. Right where my building should be. I run up to the police line and ask what the hell is going on.   
  
"Gas main," one officer says. "The super was out back smoking a cigarette when the pipe burst. Poor bastard never saw it coming."   
  
I take a minute to feel bad for Russ the super. I bet when people told him that smoking would someday kill him he never thought of this. I realize that all my worldly possessions were in that building. My couch, my bed. That new TV I just bought. All gone because Russ couldn't smoke in the building and had to go out back.   
  
"They should be able to put it out in a few hours," the cop tells me. "I sure feel sorry for anyone inside."  
  
He doesn't feel sorry for me. I'm on the outside looking in. Watching my salvation from my parents go up in flames. I don't tell him I live there. I walk down the street to the payphone on the corner and pick up the receiver. I roll of the list of names of people I could call. Buffy, Willow, Giles. They would let me stay with them. They probably already know it's my building. I see the local news van parked next to the Lincoln. My fingers hover above the buttons, my three friend's numbers coming inside my head. I dig for change and pull out Tyler's card.   
  
I don't know why I called him.   
  
After a few rings he picks up. "That was fast," he says.   
  
Listen, I tell him. You're not going to believe this. 


	3. Living Conditions

Tyler is standing at the end of the driveway when I pull up. His arms are folded across his chest, a cigarette in his mouth and a huge grin on his face. He's got this strange look in his eyes. Like he knows something I don't. I take out my bag and walk up to him. He blows a few smoke rings and keeps smiling at me. I ask him again if it's all right that I stay here.   
  
"Sure," he says.   
  
I tell him thank you and he puts his hand on my chest.   
  
"Just one thing," he says.   
  
I ask him what.  
  
"I want you to hit me as hard as you can."  
  
What?  
  
"Hit me as hard as you can."  
  
Why?  
  
"Why? I don't know why. Why is the sky blue? Come on, hit me."   
  
I stare at him for a few seconds, not having the slightest clue of why he's asking me to do this.   
  
"Never been in a fight?" Tyler asks.   
  
A few.   
  
"Then come on, what are you waiting for? Hit me."  
  
I drop my bag and ball my fists. I ask him if he's sure about this.   
  
"Sure as I'll ever be," he says.   
  
I pull my arm back and send my knuckles flying. Years of fighting vampires and other creepy-crawly things of the night had given me somewhat minimal skills of combat. My army training memories were almost shot, but I did remember a few things. I don't think Tyler was expecting such a well placed punch when my fist smashed into his cheek. He stumbled back a few feet, a small hint of shock on his face.   
  
Sorry, I tell him. I didn't mean to.   
  
Tyler smiles again, and laughs as he rubs his cheek.   
  
"Good one," he says. "Come on; let's go inside."   
  
The mansion floors are this brown/gray marble looking material. There's no furniture anywhere but Tyler said he didn't need it. He jumps in the air and does a few kicks, shouting like Bruce Lee. Why have furniture when you can run wild he tells me. I ask him what about when he wants to sit.   
  
"You think the greatest warriors in the world had Laz-E-Boys?" Tyler says.  
  
He takes me up the stairs to a room with small twin mattress on the floor. I look at it for a moment. When my parents would fight I'd take my sleeping bag outside and play camp out. This was one step up from that.   
  
Great, I say. Thanks.   
  
"I'm over there," he says pointing to a door across the hall. "Bathroom's right here," he points at another.   
  
I say thanks again, throw my bag on the ground and plop on the mattress. I remember falling asleep to the sounds of Tyler screaming and jumping around again.   
  
The next morning I get up and head for the bathroom to take a shower. I glance in the door that was Tyler's room and see him asleep on a mattress similar to mine. The bathroom was covered in dust and the shower reeked of mildew. The water came out about five minutes after turning the knob on, and when it did come out I had to wait another ten for it to turn from brown to clear.   
  
I dressed with the leftover clothes in my bag, hopped in my boss's car and went to work. I handed him the money and the papers I went all that way to fetch, and he simply said thanks. I gave him his car keys, picked up my hard hat and tool belt and went to work. My boss didn't ask about the black eye. He tried not to look at me funny when he saw my bruised and scraped knuckles as I handed him his stuff.   
  
My arms ache as I raise my level to check a beam I just set is straight. I woke up around three a.m. to go to the bathroom and I saw Tyler standing there in his room. I asked him what he was doing and asked me to hit him again. I did, and this time he hit me back. We danced for hours on the second floor of that ritzy abandoned mansion, beating the crap out of each other. My cheeks getting pounded like pizza dough, my teeth rattling like dominoes. I haven't felt this good in my life. When you're in a fight, nothing about yourself seems real. Nothing about yourself is the same. You can have a best friend you've known all your life, and in a fight, to them you'd be a total stranger.   
  
When we're done Tyler tells me not to tell anyone how I got all the cuts and bruises.   
  
"Say you fell," He says. "Say your door was stuck and you accidentally knocked yourself in the face."   
  
I want to ask why. I want to know what's so bad about telling other people I got into a fight. Instead I say sure. One thing I learned about myself while Tyler and I were throwing punches and knees, headlocks and body slams.   
  
I realized I could fight.   
  
I realized that I liked to fight.   
  
At lunchtime my hands started to bleed all over my 'off the truck' sandwich. I didn't have a napkin or anything so I let them bleed. A few of the guys walk by and stare at my swollen black eye and bleeding knuckles. They mumble to themselves about me getting my ass kicked. I laugh because I know Tyler looks the same way as I do right about now. My eyes followed every one of them until they broke eye contact with me first. I grinned as I sat there eating my sandwich and sizing all of my co-workers up. I felt big all of a sudden. I felt strong.  
  
After work a bunch of the guys were talking about going to the bar. Benny, this one really nice guy asked me to go along. I didn't have anything else to do. I hadn't told any of my friends I was back from my trip and I was still too sore to go home and fight with Tyler again. I said sure.   
  
When we got there a bunch of the patrons kept staring at me like I was a leper or something. You'd be surprised how fascinating people find blood when they see it up close and personal. The people staring wouldn't meet my eyes, or if they did it was only for a second. The guys from work all gathered in a booth and I stood at the bar. The bar tender scowled at me when I started to bleed on the wood. I didn't say sorry. I silently dared him to make me apologize. He didn't. He just gave me the once over and wiped it up.   
  
After a beer or two, I started to feel restless. I was thinking of heading home when I saw her. The dim light reflecting off of hair I'd once had between my fingers. Lips I'd once tasted and a body I'd once had at my disposal. I stood there blinking for a minute, making sure I wasn't seeing things.   
  
Faith.   
  
Sitting on the other side of the bar, scamming drinks out of hard working perverts. Smiling and promising them the world for just a few minutes of their time. I know this because I'd once been on the receiving end of those promises.   
  
Faith is the type of girl you bring home to mother if mother is the type that watches Jerry Springer all day. Eating bon-bon's and yelling at you that you're a mistake. That her life was on the fast track before you're stupid father came along and wouldn't wear a rubber. He's gone now so she blames it on you. Faith is the type of girl that mother would approve of.   
  
I try to walk out without her seeing me, but covert I am not. She looks up as I pass her and jumps from her seat.   
  
"Xander," she says. "Where the hell have you been?"  
  
Around, I tell her. A lot of people have been around.   
  
"Tell me about it," she says. "So what's up? How's tricks?"  
  
I tell her she's the trick expert.   
  
"Funny guy," she says smirking at me. A smirk I'd once fell for. "What are you doing tonight?"  
  
"I thought you were playing with me tonight baby," the guy sitting next to her says.   
  
I look down to him and Faith tells him to fuck off. He gets pissed like most guys who think they're going to score do when they find out they're not. He calls her a bitch and starts to stand up when I shove him back onto the stool. He tries to get back up, but one look at my bloody hands and black eye and he stays put.   
  
"My hero," Faith says trying to cuddle up on me.   
  
I tell her not to get used to it.   
  
"We could go back to your place," she says. "Catch up on old times."  
  
What she means by old times is that I met Faith in a support group for kids of alcoholic families. We were the only two kids that never said anything, but that was okay with everyone else. They were all too wrapped up in their own little soap operas or future talk show subjects to worry about our problems. We all sat in our Samsonite circle pretending to care about each other. I think Faith and I were the only realists there. We both knew things would never get better, but we kept going anyway. I caught her eyeing me a few times but never thought anything of it.   
  
One day by the coffee machine she snuck up behind me before it was time to hug and promise each other to be strong. She wrapped her arms around my waist and whispered in my ear all the things she would do to me. The promise that it'd be something I'd never forget. Then it was time to hug and she ran her hands to my ass and shoved her tongue down my throat. We were a thing for months until she got bored with me and chased after someone else. I didn't really care then, and I don't really care now. I knew the score. I don't want to play her game again.   
  
That's okay, I tell her. I should really get going.   
  
"You don't what you'd be missing," she shouts as I walk away.   
  
Yes I do.   
  
Out in the parking lot I see Tyler walking up and I say hey. He wants to know if I feel like having a few drinks and I tell him I just did. I'm tired and I'm going to head back home. He says okay, he'll catch me later. I get in my car and drive back to the mansion.  
  
I sleep and I have the weirdest dream. All night long I dreamed I was screwing Faith on the cold marble floor of the mansion. Tyler was standing at the top of the stairs the whole time. Smoking a cigarette, that knowing grin. Faith bucks and screams underneath me and my knees are banging against the marble but I don't stop. I hear her shout a name.   
  
I wake up to go to the bathroom, my knees feeling sore as I walk. The door to Tyler's room is closed. His door is never closed. I head downstairs when I notice a few condoms spilling out of a knocked over garbage can in the living room. I ignore them and walk into the kitchen and eat Cheerios out of a Tupperware container. I hear footsteps coming down the stairs and I start to tell Tyler about running into Faith last night and the weird dream I had.  
  
"You're not the only one who had a weird night stallion," she says waltzing into the kitchen in my bathrobe.   
  
Milk drips out of my mouth as I stare at her.   
  
What are you doing here? I ask her.   
  
"What?"  
  
How did you know I lived here?   
  
"Don't be stupid," she says.   
  
I sit and eat my cereal with my mouth shut as she washes her hands in the sink.   
  
"I'd better get going," she tells me. "I'll see you later."  
  
She runs back up the stairs and I hear her fumbling around for her clothes. A few minutes later she's back down in her wrinkled dress. She kisses me on the cheek and takes off out the back door. The minute she's gone Tyler comes walking down the stairs in jeans and no shirt.   
  
"Man you should have stayed around last night," he says.   
  
I already know what happened.   
  
Tyler walked into the bar, looking beat up and buff just the way Faith liked them. She strutted her stuff up next to him, filled his ears with her promises of never forgetting. A few drinks, a few more promises and Tyler says okay. They come back here and screw like rabbits. I'm not at all surprised.   
  
"That girl," Tyler says. "Is an animal."  
  
I don't want to hear this.  
  
"Look at my back man," he says turning around and showing me red puffy claw marks all over. "She ever do this to you?"  
  
What?  
  
"Use you as a scratching post," he says. "You fucked her right?"  
  
Yeah.   
  
"You're not still fucking her right?"  
  
Ew, no.   
  
"Good, that girl is bad for you."  
  
She's not bad for you? I say.   
  
He smiles and doesn't say anything. I tell him I've got to go to work and he grabs my arm.   
  
"Listen," he says. "I don't want you talking about me to her or anyone else."  
  
Why?  
  
"Just do me this one favor," he says. "Promise me you won't talk to her or anyone else about me."  
  
Okay, I say. I promise.   
  
"Promise?"  
  
Yes.   
  
"Promise?"  
  
Yes.   
  
"That's three times you promised," he says tapping my shoulder. "Don't work too hard now."  
  
I walk outside wondering what the hell that was about. I get in my car and drive to the site. Some of the guys are looking at me funny, but I don't think its because of my black eye this time. Some guys I've never really spoken to are smirking at me. A few guys actually say good job. I don't know what the hell they're talking about. I shrug it off and pick up my tool belt and hardhat and get to work.   
  
At lunchtime Willow and Buffy show up half-frantic, asking me where have I been. They both hug me, glad to see I was alive. Didn't I know my apartment burned down? They ask. Why didn't you call us? What the hell happened to your eye?   
  
I know. I didn't want to bother anyone. Tricky door at the motel I'm staying at.   
  
I can tell they don't really buy the door thing but they don't dig into it. I'm glad. I don't want to know what Tyler would do if I broke a promise.   
  
"Well Xand," Buffy says. "Next time we think you're dead, how about a call huh?"  
  
Sorry, I say. I guess it was shock.   
  
Willow hugs me tightly again. She says that I shouldn't be afraid to ask my friends for help and other stuff. I tell her that next time something like this happens, she's first on my list. When they ask if I know Faith is in town again, my hands clench and my scabs start to tear. They know what Faith and I used to do. They didn't approve of it at all. I tell them I've seen her, but blew her off.   
  
"Good," Buffy and Willow say in unison. "She's bad for you."   
  
Tyler had said the same thing. I wonder why.   
  
I ask Buffy how the slaying's been while I was gone. She says it's all the same song and dance. They ask about my trip and I tell them all the boring little details. The weirdo motel manager in Utah. My boss's jerky brother in Kansas City. I don't say a word about Tyler. They smile and listen and comment on how exciting it all must have been. I tell them I was playing errand boy, not going on a five-star vacation. When lunch is over they leave and make me promise to call them. I smile, say sure and I go back on the job. I can't get the vision of screwing Faith out of head. I pound the jackhammer louder and let it distract me from any thought at all.  
  
When I get home later the mansion is filled with the weirdest smell. I go upstairs and drop my stuff off in my room. I go to the bathroom and then head into the kitchen where Tyler is banging around with some pots and pans over the stove. I ask him what he's doing.   
  
"Tonight," Tyler says. "I am making soap."   
  
I notice the garbage can is overflowing with clear plastic bags with biohazard symbols on them. Residue of some substance I'm not sure I want to know is inside. Tyler sees me staring at the bags.   
  
"To make soap," Tyler says. "First you render fat."  
  
Fat, I say. Where did you get all those bags of fat?  
  
"Pay dirt," Tyler says. "Is a poorly guarded dumpster at a liposuction clinic."  
  
"I want you to do something else for me," Tyler says grabbing my hand.   
  
Sure, I say. What is it? I notice he has a can of lye in his hand. We use it sometimes on the job to unclog drains and septic tanks. Tyler says its one of the key ingredients in soap. It also serves him other purposes. I ask him what the those purposes are. He licks his lips and bends his head slightly to kiss the back of my hand. He looks back up to me and smiles. I see the can of lye poised in his other hand. I try to jerk my arm away but Tyler holds it firm.   
  
"This," Tyler says. "Is one of the key ingredients to changing your life."  
  
My eyes feel like and owl's ,all wide and black. I can't get away from him but I'm not shouting for him to stop. I stare at the lip-shaped saliva kiss shining on the back of my hand.   
  
And Tyler pours on the lye. 


	4. New World View

Imagine pain as a white ball of light inside your body. Things like cuts, scrapes, and bruises equal to about the size of a ping-pong ball. Sprained ankles and blows to the head equal to about the size of a baseball. Broken bones and torn ligaments equal the size of a basketball. Gunshot wounds and severe lacerations equal to the size of a beach ball. My little white ball of pain...equaled the size of a monster truck tire.   
  
Tyler repeats his little montage about chemical burn hurting worse than any burn. Worse than a hundred cigarettes. I'm not really listening. My hand is shaking so bad but Tyler won't let go. I feel the little chemical termites gnawing away my hand centimeter by excruciating centimeter. Tears are pouring down my face and my cheeks are scrunched with the pain. My back is so rigid I think I could actually snap my spine.   
  
"Your pain is your life," Tyler says. "Without it, you don't know if you really exist."  
  
Okay, I say, my words coming out in rapid bursts. My eyes bulging and my body shaking with the pain. I feel every nerve ending in my body getting pricked by needle points. My hand is burning worse than the time I reached for the cookie pan without a heating pad when I was a kid.   
  
"This is the greatest moment of your life," Tyler says.   
  
It is, it is. I tell him. I shut my eyes and try to think of happy things like ice cream, and summer days, and trips to the beach. Tyler slaps me in the face shattering any illusions.   
  
"No!" he shouts at me. "Don't block it out. Face it, realize it. Without pain, without sacrifice, we are nothing. Once you know, not fear, know that someday you are going to die you will be free."  
  
I'm free, I'm free I shout at him. I keep trying to jerk my hand away and run toward the sink to get the lye off but he won't let go.   
  
"You don't want to do that," Tyler says.   
  
Why not?  
  
"You can run to the sink and make it worse. Or, you can admit that yes, someday you will die. Someday no one will care if you die, and use vinegar to neutralize the burn."  
  
I admit it. I admit it.   
  
I feel the cool wave of relief and rank smell of vinegar as Tyler pours it over my hand. I fall to the floor clutching it, the stank of fried skin and piss and vinegar like a hospital emergency room. Tyler leans close to me, flashing his scar and smirking.   
  
"It is only when we have lost everything, that we have the freedom to do anything."  
  
He taps on my chest and tells me I did good. The lesson is over. My favor completed. I hear his footsteps walking away and my eyes close and the world goes black.   
  
***  
  
I wake up face down on the mattress in my room. I don't know how I got here, but I'm assuming Tyler dragged me. There's a white bandage around my hand and my back is feeling really itchy for some reason. I wander down the stairs in a daze, my body still in slight shock from the burn. The air feels different. My mind is focused but my eyes don't see what they usually see. I don't know what to make of it all. I call Tyler's name but I already know he's not here.   
  
I get into the kitchen to see Faith sitting at the table in a tarnished black leather skirt and some form fitting halter-top. She smiles at me as she twirls a piece of hair between her fingers. She has a leg propped up on the table flashing me the panties she wasn't wearing.   
  
"About time you got up," she says.   
  
What are you doing here?  
  
"Still playing that game huh?" she says throwing her leg down and walking over to me, whispering in my ear. "When did you turn into me?"   
  
Her hands travel between my legs and she gives me a light tap. I wonder what Tyler would think about all her flirting with me but I can't ask her. I am bound to promise. Stab a knife into my chest and sacrifice me to the gods. I don't want to be here with her.   
  
"I need my bag," she says rushing off somewhere inside the house.  
  
Soon as she's out of the room Tyler appears. I ask him why he went back to her and he says why not. Faith comes back into the kitchen and poof, Tyler's gone. Just like a magic trick, a late night infomercial for a revolutionary new cleaning product, Insta-vanish. He's just gone.   
  
I think you should go, I say.   
  
"I know, I know," she says.   
  
She has this odd catty look in her eyes as she walks toward me. Like a cat with a bird in it's sights. Her lips are curled in a smirk just before they crash into mine, her tongue roaming inside my mouth. Before I have the chance to push her away she breaks the kiss and tells me to call her. Then she's out the door and gone. Soon as she's out of sight, Tyler's back.   
  
"You two," he says chuckling. "You didn't talk about me did you?"  
  
You didn't come up.   
  
I'm suddenly eight years old again running around my house trying to avoid the drunken wrath of my parents. Can't talk to mom about dad, can't tell dad mom's drunk too. Back and forth.   
  
Avoid, avoid, avoid.   
  
It's a game I never liked to play then. I don't like playing it now.  
  
I'm late for work I say.   
  
***  
  
It's in the paper today that some unknown vandal broke into Sunnydale Museum of Natural History and tampered with the wildlife exhibits. Setting up all the animals into gratuitous sexual positions. Imagine being in grade school and seeing the display.   
  
A Siberian tiger sixty-nine.   
  
Black bear blow-jobs.   
  
Humping hyena's.   
  
Tasmanian devil's doing it doggy-style.   
  
You get the picture.   
  
The police have no leads and museum officials are baffled that someone would do such a thing. I couldn't help laughing at the article. If you want to change people's point of views, it always takes something drastic. I knew who had done it. Tyler's name was draped across it with a velvet blanket. As funny as it is, I get to thinking.   
  
What else is Tyler capable of? 


	5. Boom

I come home to a sucker-punch. Tyler was hiding behind the door just waiting to pounce. He knocked my head back into the door and got me in the gut before I could retaliate. I feel the blood dripping down my chin as I tighten my fist and get him with a quick uppercut, knocking him on his ass for a second. He lunged at me, simultaneously sticking me in the kidneys as I slammed into the counter. Pots rattled, wood moaned. Our fists flying like paper airplanes smashing into the teacher's back.   
  
I am my one true sense of freedom.   
  
I am free.   
  
A fight is the one thing left in the world for a man to really test himself in the hunter/gatherer sense of the word. It is a test of limits. A test of boundries. You are fueled by your pain. You want nothing more than to be a victor. Tyler's fist nearly smashes my nose as I dodge and get him in the ribs.   
  
Blood.   
  
Sweat.   
  
Bruises.  
  
These are the tattoos and facial piercings of the past.   
  
Tyler hates all the simple solutions for modern living. He would be happy with a loincloth and a spear hunting up and down the hillside for dinner. Tyler likes to fight for his natural primitive urges. I think I want to be like that sometimes. I think I want to be Tyler sometimes.   
  
When the fight is over we sit on the kitchen floor sharing a beer and applying pressure to where we're bleeding. I can wiggle a few teeth around with my tongue. My cheek feels two sizes too big and I'm pretty sure I have another black eye. My nose is dripping like a faucet all over my pants and my sides hurt so bad I don't want to move at all.   
  
I feel like a wad of pounded cookie dough. Lay me out on a sheet and bake me at four-hundred degrees for fifteen minutes.   
  
Tyler says we are the all seeing, all knowing shit of the world. We see things no one else does. We know things no one else does. We see who we are and we do not fear it. Tyler says that soon others will see. He'll make them see. I sip my beer and listen with one ear. My blood is running out of my nose as fast as my heart is pumping it. The grin on my face rivals a Cheshire cat.   
  
I thank Tyler for showing me how great this can be.   
  
Tyler says I haven't seen anything yet.   
  
***  
  
It's late when I go down into the basement to fix a fuse. I notice three bathtubs full of glycerin residue. For a second I think nothing of it before I remember what Tyler told me about adding nitric acid to the glycerin to make nitroglycerin. I don't see any nitric acid anywhere, but I do see a few bags of collected sawdust. It takes a minute to process. He's not only making nitro, he's making dynamite. For a second I think that maybe Tyler just made a huge batch of soap, but for some reason I severely doubt that. I root around looking for any sign of harsh chemicals and only come up with rat poison.   
  
Tyler asks what I'm doing from the top of the stairs. I spin and knock over some boxes. I tell him I'm fixing the fuse. He swaggers down the stairs and stops right in front of me. He looks to the tubs then back at me.   
  
"It's exactly what you're thinking," he says.  
  
Thinking what?  
  
"Just say it man," Tyler says. "You already know so just say it."   
  
I don't know what you mean, I say.   
  
"Why is it so hard for you to say what's on your mind?" Tyler asks.   
  
Why are you making dynamite? I ask.   
  
"To make an omelet," Tyler says. "You have to break a few eggs."  
  
What?  
  
"To change the way the world works," Tyler says. "You have to result to drastic action or brute force. It's the way things have always been. Imagine if Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun politely asked those surrounding countries if it was all right if they conquered. Never would have happened. They would have been killed before they finished their pitch."  
  
What are you planning on doing? I ask.   
  
Tyler says it's already done and I shouldn't worry about it.   
  
But I am worried. I want to know.   
  
"You decide your own level of involvement," Tyler says.   
  
I want to ask more questions, but there's a knock at the door and Tyler asks if I'm expecting anybody. I tell him it's probably Faith looking for a quick fuck. Tyler tells me to go for it.   
  
No, I say. That's okay.   
  
I walk back upstairs to answer the door. I hear Tyler banging around. I walk through the kitchen and get the door. Sure enough Faith is there smiling at me and holding a manila envelope in her hand.   
  
"Nice bruises raccoon boy," she says.   
  
Funny, I say. What do you want?  
  
"You left this over the other night," she says handing me the envelope. "Can I come in?"  
  
Now's not the best time, I say wondering why Tyler left something at her house and she's giving it to me. I still hear Tyler banging around in the basement. I want her to leave.  
  
"Whatever," she says. "You'll call later anyway."  
  
No I won't.   
  
"Yeah, yeah," Faith says as she turns and walks away.  
  
I look at the envelope she gave me. "First National Bank," it says in bold black print. I open it up and see blueprints for the building and a few points marked with X's. It takes a minute for me to realize what it meant. Tyler's tubs of glycerin and sawdust. He meant to blow up the bank.   
  
I storm down into the basement waving the folder in Tyler's face. What the hell is this? I shout. How does blowing up a building equal to changing the world?  
  
Tyler smiles and says "You are not how much money you have in the bank."   
  
What does that mean?  
  
"Once these people wake up with nothing," Tyler says. "They'll be free to do anything."  
  
No, I tell him. This isn't the way. You can't do this.   
  
"It's already done," Tyler says. "So shut up."   
  
I don't say anything more. I turn an run up the stairs. Tyler is shouting to my back about what exactly I think I can do to stop it. I don't know what I can do, but at least I'm going to try and do something. I grab my keys and run to my car.   
  
The streets fly by in a blur and I don't care if the police start to chase me. I whip around corners, tires screeching, pedal to floor, engine pumping. I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know how to diffuse dynamite. I pull up across the street, and spray-painted in the middle of the road are Tyler's words.   
  
"You are not how much money you have in the bank."  
  
I lean down on one knee to touch the paint. My heart is pounding inside my chest. My palms are sweaty and the only thing I can think over and over again is that I made friends with a complete psycho. Yes I wanted to change my life. Yes I thought Tyler could help me do it. Mass destruction isn't something I ever had in mind. I get up and start to walk forward.   
  
The air around me feels eerily still as I hear the caw of a bird in the distance.   
  
Then the bank explodes. 


	6. Project Mayhem

  
The giant fireball of orange flame shoots upward from the hollowed out structure of the bank like a huge roman candle. I watch it curl into the sky from my spot on the street, flat on my back with a few pebbles digging into my spine. My head is spinning from the force of the blast and the light show. It rains ashes, scorched deposit slips, and shards of bullet proof glass. A few pieces stick into my leg and I have to bit my lip when I pull them out. I turn on my hands an knees and crawl back to my car.   
  
Tyler said I haven't seen anything yet.   
  
Now I don't think I like what I've seen.   
  
Fighting is one thing.   
  
Arson is another.   
  
I don't remember signing up for the future arsonists of America. I speed home carefully avoiding the parade of firetrucks and cop cars. I'm woozy as hell when I walk up the drive. My head is spinning and my legs feel like rubber. I get to the steps and I collapse. I think I heard Tyler walking around but I couldn't be sure.   
  
Was I asleep?  
  
Had I been sleeping?  
  
I don't know how long I was laying there before coming to. I was groggy and walking still felt like the ground was made of jell-o. Preferably cherry. I walk in to the kitchen with the speed of a tortoise. Tyler's pots and pans and all his other soap making materials are gone. No freezer full of fat. No tallow containers. No glycerin. I run as fast as I can down to the basement and all the tubs are wiped clean. No sawdust is on the ground. The house is empty.   
  
I rush up the stairs to Tyler's room and his door is closed again. For a split second I think he's in there fucking Faith because that's the only reason his door's ever closed. There is no moaning and screeching like banshee's behind the door. I know they're not here. Tyler's room is a slew of papers. Blueprints and maps and supply lists. He has nearly every building in Sunnydale here. I shift through some of the pile before I noticed the big blueprint tacked to the wall.   
  
City hall.   
  
For a second I can't breathe.  
  
For two seconds I can't move.   
  
He was going to blow up city hall.   
  
I go to tear the paper off the wall and suddenly Tyler's there. Fast as a magic tick.   
  
Tyler what the fuck is going on?  
  
"What are you doing?" he asks.   
  
Stopping you, I say. You can't do this. This isn't right.   
  
"Don't give that crap about right and wrong," Tyler says. "Who decides what right and what's wrong anyway? The government? God? I'm doing what I think is right. Think about it man. You do what you want, where you want, when you want. Freedom. Its all everyone ever really wants. It's what I intend to give."   
  
Why does freedom include killing people?  
  
"I'm not killing anybody," Tyler says. "It's three o'clock in the morning. Who do you know that hangs out in a government building at three o'clock in the morning? It's empty."  
  
No, I say. The bank was bad enough. Not this.   
  
"Always the moral crusader," Tyler says.   
  
I take the blueprint of the wall and roll it up. I'm going to stop you, I say and start to run out. Tyler's hand on my shoulder stops me.   
  
"Faith saw the file on the bank," he says. "She knows too much about our operation. We might want to discuss how this is going to affect our goals."  
  
You left that damn file at her house, I tell him. If she blows the whistle on you it'll be your own damn fault.   
  
"Us," Tyler says. "She'll blow the whistle on both of us."  
  
What the fuck does that mean?   
  
"You live here, you know what I did with the materials. You knew about the bank."  
  
I tried to stop you, I say.   
  
"What jury's going to believe that?" Tyler says. "She'll talk, what are we going to do about it?"  
  
Nothing, I say. It's your fault she kept coming around anyway.   
  
"We have to do something," Tyler says. "It's the way things have to be."  
  
There are footsteps downstairs and poof, Tyler's gone. I look around for a minute trying to see where the hell he went. He's just gone. I find a discarded piece of paper and write a note to Faith. I warn her of Tyler's intentions. I tell her to get out of town. Somewhere safe. She doesn't know what he's capable of. Please I ask her. Do this with out any questions. I sign my name and run downstairs. Faith is there, standing in the middle of the floor, twirling her hair and smiling at me.   
  
"Hey," she says. "You look like shit."  
  
Thanks, I say. I hand her the note. Don't read this until I'm gone I say. Tyler's going crazy and I don't know if he's still here.   
  
"What?" she says.   
  
Please, I ask. Just do as I say this one time. Please. She looks at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. I don't have time to think about that right now. I have to stop Tyler. She's still looking at me funny.   
  
"I don't know why you ever wanted to be called that name," she says.   
  
Great. Two "what the fuck does that mean" situations in the time-span of ten minutes. That can't be good. I have no time. I have to go, I tell her. Don't read the note until I'm gone. She's shouting at me as I run away but I can't hear what. I get in my car and floor it to City Hall. All the cops and firemen are still at the bank I guess, so once again I don't worry about my speeding.   
  
I pull up in front of city hall about ten minutes later and Tyler is there standing on the steps. I run up to him. He doesn't look happy.   
  
"You broke your promise," He says. "You fucking talked about me."  
  
You were going to hurt her, I say.   
  
"I ask you one thing. One simple thing."  
  
I ask him where the bomb is. He gets madder by the second.   
  
"You can't stop it," Tyler says. "You can't play the hero here. Not today, not any day."  
  
Where is the bomb? I ask.   
  
Tyler screams like Bruce Lee and jump-kicks me square in the jaw. I punch him in the ribs but he tackles me and keeps punching and punching till I see stars. My eyes close and my body feels as heavy as a rock. Tyler elbows be across the temple and I can't see anything anymore.   
  
***  
  
I think that's right about where I left off. I woke up on top of this parking garage with a knife to my throat and a gun to the back of my head.   
  
Tyler moves the gun again and walks a few paces away.   
  
"You know what worries me?" Tyler asks. "It isn't politics. It isn't the threat of nuclear war. What worries me Xander, is the internet generation. Commercials for medicine that has more side affects than cures. Television with 500 channels and never anything good on. Movie stars telling me how to look and act. Pop music and a fucking Starbucks on every corner."   
  
I think I'm starting to get tired of Tyler's little speeches. He blah, blah, blahs, makes soap, and blows stuff up. That's all I've ever really seen him do. I don't tell him this of course. He's still got the gun. His temper is still flaring.   
  
Those things don't matter in the wider spectrum of things, I say.   
  
"You would think that wouldn't you?" Tyler says. "You haven't been listening to a damn thing I've been trying to teach you."   
  
I was never a good student, I say.   
  
Tyler laughs. I rest my hands on the concrete edge of the garage and wonder how many minutes until boom time.   
  
"Five minutes and counting," Tyler says practically reading my mind.   
  
I sit there watching him with the gun and knife, eagerly awaiting the mayhem. He's the kid counting down the minutes till Christmas morning. His stocking stuffer is the anarchist's cookbook. I just sit there. In reality I'm actually kind of bored. I've already seen one explosion tonight. What's the big deal about another? I almost ask Tyler for a cigarette even though I don't smoke. I figure it might pass the time or something.   
  
Enter the unexplained plot twist.  
  
I hear her before I see her. The sound of her boots stomping up the concrete stairwell and a few curses to herself. I don't know how she ever found me. As soon as she's in sight Tyler disappears again. I don't know how he does it. Faith marches right over to me, my letter in hand. She looks pissed.   
  
"What the fuck is this?" she yells at me waving the letter in my face. "Is this your idea of a joke?"  
  
Joke?  
  
"This crap about Tyler wanting to hurt me!" she roars. "You think this is funny?"  
  
I'm not laughing.   
  
"God you're even more fucked up than I thought."  
  
What do you mean?  
  
"Could you put those down?" she asks pointing at my hands. "They aren't making me feel any better."  
  
What?  
  
"The knife and gun," she says in a 'duh' kind of way.  
  
Tyler has the knife and gun, I say.   
  
"There you go again," she says rolling her eyes.  
  
Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking.  
  
"Look at your hands," she says.   
  
I look down to my hands. I see Tyler's gun and Tyler's knife in them. Surprise doesn't begin to cover it. These are Tyler's, I say.   
  
"No shit Sherlock."  
  
What does that mean?  
  
"You," she says pointing a finger into my chest.   
  
Please fasten seatbelts and make sure all trays are in their upright and locked positions.   
  
"Are Tyler-shit-for-brains-fucking-Durden," she says.   
  
We have just lost cabin pressure.   
  
No, I say.   
  
"Yes," she says.   
  
This can't be happening.   
  
"You came back into the bar that night," she says.   
  
I went home I say.   
  
"You came back into that bar," she repeats. "Looking all beat up and gorgeous. You told me to call you Tyler Durden."  
  
No.   
  
"You said I looked like a gal that knew how to live."  
  
Stop it.   
  
"You wanted to play. We played. God you were good. Better than ever before."  
  
Shut up.  
  
"Why do you think I kept coming around huh? I'd have to have been as crazy as you for putting up with all that crap if I wasn't getting anything in return. You're such the moody morning person," she says. "You have serious emotional problems."  
  
Shut up!  
  
Faith never sees my fist flying toward her. I've never hit a girl in my life. I feel a little bad about it. She hits the ground with a thump. In the blink of an eye Tyler is back.   
  
Why does Faith think I'm you? I ask.   
  
"You broke your promise again," he says lifting the gun to me.   
  
It doesn't scare me this time. The gun isn't in your hand, I say. The gun is in my hand.  
  
Tyler looks down and the gun and knife aren't there anymore. I lift my hands to let him see.   
  
"So what," Tyler says. "So now you know. Doesn't change anything."  
  
Know what?  
  
"It's always so damn hard for you realize this shit man," He says. "Why in the world would anyone ever confuse you with me? You know why. So just fucking say it."  
  
Because...  
  
"Go on."  
  
Because we're the same person.   
  
"That's my boy," he says.   
  
But, but you know all that stuff about dynamite and soap, I say.   
  
"Technically, you know all that stuff about dynamite and soap," Tyler says.   
  
You have the mansion.  
  
"You found that mansion on one of your little creature-of-the-night hunting trips," Tyler says. "No one goes there. No relators can sell it."  
  
Faith, you're fucking Faith.   
  
"You're fucking Faith my friend," he says. "Some habits die hard."   
  
No.   
  
"Yes."  
  
I didn't want this, I say.   
  
"Oh don't give me that bullshit," Tyler says. "You wanted to change your life. Donut boy couldn't do that on his own. So you invented me. I can do everything you want to do, I can be anyone you want to be, I am smart, capable, and don't let little things like conscious slow me down."  
  
This can't be happening.   
  
"Open you're fucking eyes Xander," he yells. "It's real, I'm real. There isn't anything you can do or say that can stop me now."  
  
I look at the gun in my hand. Faith stirs on the ground, but Tyler is still there. I tell him again that I didn't want this.   
  
"Yes you did," he says. "I wouldn't be here if this isn't what you wanted. Now come on and give me gun man. You don't want to do anything crazy now."  
  
Listen to me Tyler, I say. He stops talking and smirks at me. I put the gun to my head. His smirk grows wider. If I die you die, I say.   
  
"I don't think so," he says moving toward me.   
  
I take the gun from my head and point it at him. I pull the trigger and nothing happens. The bullet just whizzes right through him. He's running at me, he intends to beat the tar out of me. I keep firing and the bullets keep flying. He's only a foot away. I close my eyes and wait for the punch but it never comes.   
  
Faith lifts her moans from the ground and I open my eyes. Tyler's gone.   
  
"You fucking asshole!" she yells.   
  
I tell her I'm sorry. She tells me to go to hell. Listen to me, I say.   
  
"What?" she says impatiently.   
  
I have to stop Tyler.   
  
"But you're Tyler."  
  
I know. I put the gun to my head and pull the trigger.   
  
Click.   
  
Great.   
  
Faith is sitting there looking at me with wide eyes. She's looks at my note and then at me.   
  
"Why did you try to save me?" she asks.   
  
I step up onto the banister of the parking garage. I stare down at the ground, twirling and looming below. I look back to her. I don't know, I say. I think I might like you.   
  
"Then, then stay," she says. "I know the difference now. Tyler was just a fuck. I think I like you too."  
  
Thank you, I tell her. But I have to end this. Tyler is still here. I don't think he's ever going to go away.   
  
"How are you going to end it?" she asks.   
  
The only way I can, I say. I smile at her. She smiles back.   
  
And I jump. 


	7. Epilogue

  
I wake up in my bed covered in sweat. The sheets cling to me and my mouth is dry. I look around my apartment with nervous eyes and I relax when I see it's all the same. My hands are shaking when I lift the sheets off.   
  
It all seemed so real.   
  
Too real.   
  
I go into the kitchen and find a note from Anya on the kitchen table saying she went to the shop early to help Giles with inventory. She complains that she better get overtime pay for it. There's other stuff about all the crazy things she'll do to me tonight and I smile. My heart is still beating a couple hundred miles-an-hour, but I feel good.   
  
I go to the phone and call both Willow and Buffy just needing to hear their friendly voices. They ask if I'm feeling okay and I tell them I'm fine. I'm better than fine. Never felt so great in my life. I was rambling yes, but it was good. It was me.   
  
I remember falling asleep to a movie last night. I remember relating to it's main character so much. I remember wanting a Tyler Durden of my very own. I would seriously rethink that now. I shower and shave and I go to work.   
  
It doesn't feel like the life is being sucked out of me with every breath. My boss doesn't treat me like an errand boy. The guys on crew don't look at me like a leper.   
  
It's great.   
  
It's better than great. This is my life, and I'm living it exactly the way I want to.   
  
There's just one little thing bothering me as I pound concrete with the jackhammer. Something that won't get out of my head.   
  
Was Tyler my bad dream?  
  
Or was I Tyler's? 


End file.
